Jeremy C Kester

This is a “beat myself up” post.

I started writing somewhere in my early teens. A lot of it was a response to what others were doing, but it evolved into something that I found I was pretty decent at. When I am in the zone, I can also be extremely prolific as well. Given the time, I could easily write close to 10,000 words a day. That’s a novel written in 5 days.

What I mean by “time” in this instance is my ability to work from home strictly on the creative process (didn’t I talk about process the other day?) of writing. That isn’t even remotely possible at the moment for a number of factors. And all of those factors is about me (and a job and a family, but really: me).

I do not think that I am a terrible writer. The problem is that quality only matters so much. Perfect grammar is a fool’s erand. Perfect structure is a pipe dream. If one chases so hard after such things, they lose sight of the land forever lost adrift in the sea. Enough metaphors.

I am not here to beat up my attention to grammar or structure. I try to keep both under check, but not at the detriment of the story. I am here to kick my own ass over my lack of marketing and writing in general. Wait, did I say writing? I really mean publishing, but the writing works too.

As an indie writer, part-time or not, my publishing volume should be 2 to 4 works a year. More if shorter pieces are involved, like short stories and novelettes. My average is 1.3 per year since August of 2012 when my book Remember the Yorktown was pushed out the door. 1.3 per year and only one of them is a legitimate novel. It’s actually, 1 novel, 2 novellas, 1 short story, and 1 collection of poetry. Shameful really. It should look like: 4 novels, 6 to 8 novellas, 4+ short stories, and 1 collection of poetry.

But I mire myself in the bogs of editing too often. Couple my complete lack of having a good, sustainable process in writing and I find myself lost with no hope of getting anywhere. And when I do publish, crickets…

No one sees.

Why?

Because I publish my books like a special operative trying not to get caught behind enemy lines. (Okay, maybe I still have a few more metaphors to go.) I hit the publish button and do NOTHING. Maybe I might tweet… whoop de do. Apparently I don’t want to strain myself.

To get anywhere, not only do I have to push shit out the door, I have to put it in a small brown paper bag, set it on a bunch of people’s doorsteps and light the sonofabitches on fire. Get some damned attention!

Yet I sit here bemoaning the world I am in right now wondering if I will ever catch my break

In short, not a fucking chance.

Unless I make changes.